


Burned by the Fire in My Blood

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Nanda Parbat, Spoilers, angsty smut, speculation for 3x20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3566873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: speculation/wish-casting for 3x20, based on spoilers and hints from producers and actors. Those jerks. Smutty angst. Or angsty smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burned by the Fire in My Blood

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: to youguysimserious for enthusiastically supporting the idea of this. :)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Not my characters.

Firelight does amazing things for Oliver.

It’s probably not the right time to notice that kind of thing, considering that the disheartened members of Team Arrow are positioned in a loose circle around a low, open fire pit, deep inside the League compound in Nanda Parbat. The mood is unrelentingly somber. Not even Felicity, sitting cross-legged on a small pillow with her shoes lying on the stone floor beside her, can come up with a single thing to say. 

Instead, she tries to stare into the fire and turn off her mind, turn off her memories of the past few days. But her gaze strays to Oliver over and over again, drinking him in while she can. 

There’s something about the flickering light thrown from the flames that softens his features, hiding the grim, determined set of his chin and the regret in his eyes. He looks -- he just looks beautiful.

Not that he needs help, of course. Felicity is _painfully_ aware that his attractiveness only ever lessens on the days he’s actively breaking her heart. And even then, he’s still painfully beautiful to her.

_Painful_.

It’s basically been their theme for months, and, considering they’re currently fugitives from American justice forced to take shelter with the damn League of Assassins…. well, Felicity wouldn’t put any money on happiness any time soon.

Because Oliver’s going to take Ra’s’ offer. Oliver’s going to become Ra’s al Ghul. 

It’s…

Her skin crawls just thinking about it, and she shivers, drawing a bit closer to the fire. 

Oliver notices, his brow furrowing as he watches her. But this awful, painful distance between them remains. All the things she said on the plane, all of the different ways she told him she loved him and believed in him and would help him find a better solution if only he’d choose morality, choose life, choose _her_?

It doesn’t matter, because tomorrow is decision day, and he’s already made up his stubborn, impossible, self-sacrificing mind.

When she shifts even closer to the open flames, Oliver says her name. It’s a question and a plea for forgiveness and she just -- she’s had enough.

Grabbing her shoes, Felicity pushes to her feet, gives the others a small, forced smile and a quiet goodnight, and heads for her room. Chamber? She’s… not really sure what to call it. Everything here feels very foreign to her -- rough stone floors and lush pillows and blankets, and a persistent dimness caused by a dearth of windows and all the stone-age fire pits instead of sensible fluorescents or LEDs. She wonders how much of it is artifice, meant to keep people off balance.

She sure feels unsteady here. She’s felt off-kilter for _months_ , since the Sara’s death, if she’s being honest. But being here where she _never_ wanted to be, feeling trapped and unwanted and like some strange combination of a guest and a prisoner -- it just magnifies her discomfort.

There’s no freaking wifi, for one. She’s cut off from information, from her only real means to protect herself and her team. She’s stuck somewhere far from home, about to lose the man she loves -- again and for good -- and there’s literally nothing she can do about it. There’s nothing she can _do_ at all. 

Nothing but flop face down on the low bed and try to forget everything.

Her bed is fairly comfortable. It’s low to the floor, and pushed into the corner farthest from the door, which doesn’t lock. None of their doors lock, and they’re surrounded by assassins. 

Nanda Parbat, Felicity decides, _sucks_.

She turns her face away from the door, bringing her arms up beneath the pillow as she stares blankly at the dull wall. Which looks blurry, until she realizes she’s crying, and she should really take her glasses off, because the frames are pressing weirdly against her nose, and apparently it’s Big Gut-Wrenching Cry time. 

She’s been holding this particular breakdown off for quite a while, and as much as she’d like to reschedule it for _never_ , there’s not a single, solitary thing here to distract her. So. 

She’s just placed her glasses on the low side table when she hears a gentle knock.

Oliver. 

Of course, Oliver.

She’s already crying, so why not just go with it? He already knows he’s been breaking her heart in slow motion. Hell, he’s already apologized. Why bother hiding her devastation?

“Come in,” she says, loudly enough so he can hear. 

“Felicity?” he asks as he pushes the door open, as if he’s not sure she’s okay with him entering even though she just said he could.

Felicity doesn’t move -- still lying on her stomach, her face turned away from him -- and she doesn’t answer. There are a thousand unhelpful thoughts in her mind right now -- images of other ways their lives could’ve gone, other choices they could’ve made. She wonders, briefly, if she could’ve been happy never having met him, but dismisses the thought immediately.

No matter how it ends for her and Oliver, she can’t ever regret him.

She’s crying a little harder now, and he’s freaky quiet when he’s _not_ barefoot, so it’s no surprise that she doesn’t hear him move to her side. Suddenly his hand is on her back, his warm palm pressed flat against her shoulder blade as the mattress shifts. Her body cants slightly toward him, her hip bumping into his.

“Felicity.” This time it’s an apology and an offer of comfort. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. She can hear the sincerity in his voice. He means it -- he _is_ sorry, but he won’t change his mind. 

And she can’t let him go just yet. 

She knows how this all ends, she knows it ends _tomorrow_ , but Felicity refuses to spend their last few hours sobbing all over him. So she takes in a shuddering breath, and turns her head to face him, pushing up on her elbow and rolling onto her side. He doesn’t lift his hand from her, just smooths it down as she moves so that he ends up sitting inches from her, with his hand pressed firmly into her hip.

Felicity swipes at the tear tracks on her cheeks and looks up at him. 

Up close, not even the firelight can hide the tears standing in his eyes as he looks down at her. He’s so beautiful and he’s in such agony. She hates so much that her instinct is to comfort him. She just wants to be selfish right now. She wants him to comfort her.

He takes a quick unsteady breath. “Felicity.”

And suddenly she can’t wait another second. She pushes herself upright, scooting closer. Oliver is reaching for her as she moves, his arms coming around her waist to pull her against him. They’re at awkward angles -- her legs are half curled behind his hips, he’s got both feet still on the floor and his torso twisted to face her -- but she doesn’t care.

This time, she cups his face, his stubble scratching against her palms as she pulls his face to hers. 

This kiss is everything. 

It’s slow and emotional and proves all the things she told him earlier. All the things he’s told her for months. Felicity loops her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer to him, her breasts pressed against his ribcage, their hips side by side. 

Oliver pulls away for a moment, just long enough to whisper, “I love you.”

She’s crying again, and her voice sounds scratchy when she echoes his words back to him. “I love you.”

And just like on the plane, his eyes flutter shut for just a moment, like he can’t believe she’s saying these words. Like he can’t believe she _means it_. 

It makes her heart ache, and she says it again, “I love you, Oliver.”

This time, the kiss is fire, scorching away the excuses and the reasons and the decisions. 

It escalates quickly, and she needs more. With an impatient whimper, she starts to shift, but his arms tighten around her, and the fact that his biceps feel like planks against her shouldn’t be so erotic. But, God, it really is. She eases back, nipping his bottom lip, tugging it a bit until he growls at her. _Growls_. 

She’s already panting a little, and all of this overwhelming emotion -- all of her anger and her sadness and her love and her hope and her _wanting_ \-- it’s all coalescing into something powerful between them. Something she can’t stop. Doesn’t _want_ to stop.

She knows he feels it, too, because he’s Oliver and he’s suddenly trying to pull away. Her nails dig stubbornly into his back, her arms straining with the effort of keeping him close. She’s not strong enough -- she never is, and she wants to scream at him, punch his stupid chest until he understands. Why can’t they just have this if they won’t have any tomorrows?

Why can’t they just have this _one moment_?

But she’s wrong -- this time, Oliver’s not pushing her away. When she opens her eyes, there are tear tracks on his cheeks, but his gaze is locked onto hers, unwavering. “I don’t want to leave you, Felicity.”

Her panic fades some, and she takes one deep breath to savor this moment where Oliver might finally choose her. Even if it’s just for one night.

“So then stay with me, Oliver,” she answers, her voice rough but steady. She won’t plead with him, that’s a bridge too far for her bruised and battered heart. She needs this to be his decision. So she stills, watching him carefully, letting her request hang heavy in the fire-lit air between them.

He dips his chin once, gives her a tremulous half-smile, and says, “Okay.”

Before she can process that, Oliver practically lunges forward, half-tackling her to the mattress. They’re still misaligned -- he’s half on top of her, half beside her, but she’s not bothered by the details, because he’s kissing her again, with intent, like he means it, like he loves her and is set on proving it to her.

She cups the back of his head, holding him to her even as he moves, breaking the kiss and pressing his lips to her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. 

Felicity shifts on the mattress, turning into him, her hands running across every bit of him she can reach. She arches into his touch, into the feel of his lips and tongue tracing the neckline of her shirt. He hums against her skin, and she’s convinced she’s burning from the inside out -- she can’t keep still. Her fingers dig into his muscles, tug him closer, smooth along the impressive definition in his arms, then skim up his rib cage, pulling the soft fabric of his shirt up as she moves.

“Felicity,” he mutters into her skin, his breath hot against her. 

She pulls back from him, levers herself up to sit beside him. “Undress,” she orders, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed beside him. Damn her practicality, but she’s wearing tight jeans instead of a dress. So she gets to her feet, yanking her shirt off before unbuttoning and unzipping her pants. 

It’s not a performance -- her moves are utilitarian, but when she steps out of the puddle of denim at her feet, Oliver is sitting, frozen, on the edge of the bed, eyes wide, mouth agape as he watches her. She feels the slightest flush of embarrassment, but reaches behind to unclasp her bra anyway, and something about the movement breaks through to Oliver.

He’s standing inches from her, suddenly, his hands landing on the straps on her shoulders. “May I?”

It’s so formal, so polite, that it gets a grin out of her. “You may,” she answers.

Slowly and carefully, he eases the straps off of her shoulders, pulls the red fabric until the bra falls, forgotten, from her wrists. His breathing is a little unsteady, but then so is hers. 

“You’re-- Felicity, I-- You’re gorgeous,” he tells her solemnly. The way he’s looking at her -- she feels it low in her belly.

Her hands find the hem of his shirt and she lifts it a few inches, her fingers tracing the ridges of his abdomen. He dips his chin in a quick nod, then whips his shirt off, tossing it haphazardly behind him. " _You’re_ gorgeous,” she tells him, her fingers tracing lightly down the center of his chest. The flickering firelight -- it’s ridiculous what it does for him. Like he even needs the help. 

Oliver traces patterns down her arms, around her breasts. While he’s focusing on that, Felicity unfastens his jeans and eases them down. He seems surprised when she drops to her knees before him, carefully pulling his boxer-briefs down to free his erection.

She runs her palms slowly up his legs, pausing to caress his bad knee before smoothing along the hard muscle of his thighs. His hands clutch into fists at his sides, and she looks up at him, her mouth dangerously close to his cock.

“Felicity,” is all he manages. He’s watching her with wide, dark eyes, his breath coming hard and fast.

She grips the base of his erection, enjoying the way he groans before she even takes him in her mouth. Felicity leans closer, ignoring the discomfort of her knees on the stone floor. She presses wet, open-mouthed kisses along his length, and his hand is shaking a little as he threads it into her hair. 

When she closes her lips around him and eases down, he inhales sharply. She works him slowly, learning what he likes, what makes him resort to rough curses Russian. 

Too soon, he’s pulling her away, urging her to her feet, and those stupidly strong arms band tight around her ribcage as he kisses her desperately. He backs up two steps and drops to sit on the low mattress, bringing her to stand between his spread thighs.

Reverently, he pulls her panties down her legs, his palms hot against her thighs as he drags them back up to cup her ass. They both groan at the sensation. He brings one hand around and she shivers at the feel of his fingertips tracing her hipbone. His hand dips lower, and she grabs his shoulders to brace herself when he finds her clit.

“So fucking beautiful,” he mutters, and then he blows on her nipple before sucking it into his mouth, and his fingers are easing inside of her, and she loses track of things a little bit. Because she’s burning up, sparks cascading through her body as his touch drives her higher and higher.

Oliver licks a trail down her abdomen, and she glances down at him. She can read his intentions, knows that he wants to taste her, but it’s not gonna work in this position. She presses her palms on his chest until he lays back, using his free hand to tug her hips closer. He’s still got two fingers inside of her, pumping slowly, so her coordination is a little iffy when she moves to straddle his hips. 

She touches his wrist, and his hand falls away from her. Felicity needs a moment to recover when he sucks his fingers into his mouth and then tugs her down to kiss her senseless.

She’s grinding against him, and he’s pressing up, and they’re both desperate for it, so she tears herself away from that kiss, feeling drunk with it, drunk on _him_. 

She reaches between them, holding him steady so she can sink down onto him. He’s big enough that she has to take it a little slow, breathing through the stretch. Her head is tilted back, and she stays still, letting her body adjust to him.

Oliver’s hands are tight on her hips, holding her steady. “Felicity?”

She tilts forward, her hands landing on his chest. Their gazes catch and hold. 

“Oliver,” she says. A reaffirmation.

His eyes are shining with tears. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She nods, feeling the answering sting of emotion behind her eyes. “You?”

He grins up at her, one of those smiles that rival the sunshine. “Never been better,” he answers. 

Felicity leans down, and they’re kissing again, all emotion. She braces her palms on the mattress beside his arms and starts to move, a slow, steady roll of her hips. 

Oliver’s hands move along her body -- to her breasts, to her ass, to her clit -- but always end up back on her hips, guiding her movements. 

They kiss almost constantly as the heat builds between them. She’s not sure she’s ever had sex like this before -- where she feels everything _so much_. 

When she begins to move faster, grinding down on him as her breathing stutters and turns to panting gasps, his grip on her tightens and he starts to snap his hips up into her.

She feels each thrust like a wave of heat cresting over her body. She’s getting close, and she gives him a bruising kiss before straightening her arms and changing the angle. Oliver groans her name and uses the leverage he has with his feet planted firmly on the floor to increase the pace and the intensity.

Felicity arches her back, feeling the shivering heat of her orgasm, and then his thumb is on her clit and she’s flying. She burns with it, heated pleasure searing along her nerve endings. It leaves her gasping.

Oliver’s hands on her ass hold her up a little higher, pounding into her desperately a few more times before he's coming. His fingers dig into her flesh and he groans something in Russian. She almost comes again just from that.

Collapsing forward, Felicity snakes one arm beneath his neck and presses her cheek to his heaving chest. Oliver’s arms come around her, one palm against her spine, the other cupping her ass. “I love you,” he whispers into her hair. “God. Felicity. I love you so much.”

She closes her eyes, refusing to cry. “I love you,” she tells him. She presses kisses to his skin, letting her heart rate return to normal. 

She wants to stay awake all night. She wants to make love to him again and again until he changes his mind. But her limbs feel heavy, and she lets herself drift. Just for a little bit. 

Beneath her, Oliver’s breathing has calmed, and he keeps whispering, a steady stream of Russian.

She’s drowsy, but she smiles against his skin. “Can’t understand a word, Oliver,” she says.

His arms tighten around her, and she feels so safe and so warm and so loved that, okay, maybe just a quick nap before round two.

As she starts to drift off, she hears Oliver repeat, “I don’t want to leave you.”

Felicity sighs against his skin. “So then stay with me.”

END


End file.
